


Miscellany

by Anicaruscomplex



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anicaruscomplex/pseuds/Anicaruscomplex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Alex-centric drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The darkest hour

**prompts: the darkest hour - choosing sides - might as well - stargazing**

They'd hurt him, damaged him, broken him. So broken that he didn't think anyone would ever be able to put him back together again. His left arm hung limply against his side and he grimaced each time his feet met the concrete. The knuckles on his right hand were white against the sleek black plastic of the Glock, clutching the gun as if it somehow promised salvation, the trigger slick with the blood of the previous owner. His own blood was hot and sweet in his mouth and he fought the urge to gag, aware that his only chance of survival rested on the few moments of head start that he'd somehow managed to snatch from his captors. If he stopped running, he was dead.

But something in him told him that he'd managed to get away. Another successful mission, the memory stick in his pocket proof enough of that, another potential threat neutralised by MI6. Britain could breathe easy again. If he booked himself onto the next plane, he'd probably be home and debriefed by dinner, patted on the back and sent off to the hospital to be patched up again. In a few weeks he'd be fit enough to do this all over again.

He wondered what would happen if he didn't go back. He'd accepted that he would never be normal, too damaged to be content with the mundane, but there were other options. Years in the field had gained him a reputation as one of the best; going freelance would allow him the freedom to choose his own contracts and the resources to spend his down time in luxury. The naïve belief that the world was split into good and evil had faded as he'd grown up and morphed into a jaded realisation that there was little difference between the people on both sides. Did it really matter who was in the sights when he pulled the trigger?

He snorted and slowed, pausing for a moment to regain his breath, content that he'd lost his pursuers in the maze of backstreets. Knew already that he'd return to MI6 again and again and again, taking on any mission they gave him with little protest. He might as well. He couldn't deny the thrill that accompanied each assignment, or the claustrophobia that clawed at his thoughts when he was forced to stay at home and recover. There was even a part of him, a part that hadn't been vitiated by his involvement in this world, that was still proud that his actions had saved hundreds – thousands – of innocent lives, even if he was finding it harder to bring himself to care.

He tipped his head backwards and rested it on the wall behind him, exhaling slowly as he glanced skyward. Stars winked back at him, half obscured by the glow of light from the town, and the sharp reminder of how small humanity really was, how little any of this mattered, was enough to ground him again. It would be all over soon enough.

For now, he had a plane to catch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a collection of drabbles, loosely based in the same sort of universe but not always connected. I'll be trying out a few different things to get a feel for the characters so I'd really appreciate it if you'd let me know if I capture them right.


	2. Flowers

**Prompts: at the tone - flowers - rug - couch potato**

"You have reached the voicemail of 07823 61332. Please leave a message at the tone."

Alex scowled and hung up again, sliding the phone back into his jeans. In the rear view mirror he could see the taxi driver smirk, half twisting in the seat to peer back at his teenage passenger.

"Girlfriend not picking up?"

"Something like that," Alex muttered miserably, glancing down at his hands, at the bouquet of brightly coloured tulips he'd paid far too much for at the airport gift shop. They looked garish against the black of the cab and he had a sudden urge to roll down the window and throw them out, unsure why he'd bought them in the first place. He didn't know how to do this, had no idea how to act in a relationship that wasn't, but he'd needed something to show how sorry he was.

"Well, we're here anyway. Good luck with the girl, mate."

Alex slid out of the car, peeling forty quid from his wallet. "Keep the change," he told the driver, shouldering the duffel bag and reluctantly picking up the flowers. Took a deep breath to steady himself as he looked up at the block of run-down flats.

He refused to think too much about it as he entered and called the lift, jaw clenched and eyes resolutely set on the door in front of him as he ignored the numbers flashing on his right. His stomach dropped as the doors jerked open and he forced himself to get out and walk the fifty metres to the flat, knocking before he lost his nerve. His gaze settled on a strip of peeling wallpaper by the door frame as he waited to be let in, the flowers brandished like a weapon in front of him.

Knocked again, louder, after a few minutes passed with no response. He bit his lip as he considered the implications, tried to convince himself that the assassin was probably just out. He wouldn't have moved on without saying anything, right? His right hand scrabbled desperately in his pocket for the key he'd been given only weeks ago as he wondered whether it would still even fit the lock. There was a sigh of relief as it turned easily and he braced himself as he pushed the door open, still half expecting to discover a different family had moved in.

No, it was still the same. He recognised the sparse furniture in the hallway, the jacket hung up on the hooks to his left, and his eyes closed briefly as he realised that he hadn't been abandoned. The thought bolstered him and he closed the door behind him, dropping his bag by Yassen's jacket as he moved further into the flat, intending to find a vase or something for the flowers and paper to scribble an apology on. After that he could only pray that he'd get a phone call back.

His breath caught as he realised the assassin wasn't out. Was, in fact, lying on the sofa across from him, languidly spread out with one arm tucked behind his head. The blue eyes that met his were emotionless and Alex fought to keep from simply turning and bolting.

The air between them was heavy with the memory of their last encounter, the accusations and insults that Alex had spat in the Russian's face before storming out. He'd felt ignored and taken advantage of, convinced that the assassin was just playing with him, and he'd been on a plane to his next mission before he'd had a chance to calm down and realise what he'd done.

"I'm sorry," he muttered finally, though he kept the distance between them. "I didn't mean it. I was angry and upset and I didn't think you cared about me." His eyes were bright with tears he was struggling not to shed, desperate to make this right again but agonisingly aware that he didn't know what to say to put it right. "Please, I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't. I, just, this scares me sometimes. I've not done this before. It scares me how much I want you."

Yassen continued to just look at him and Alex dropped his head uncomfortably, staring at his feet, tasting blood in his mouth from where he'd bitten it too harshly. "Please just say something," he finished weakly, unable to take this any longer.

The sofa groaned and Alex looked up as Yassen pushed himself to his feet, unable to keep from admiring the man even now, the play of muscles under the fitted t-shirt drawing his attention. He'd taken half a step back before he realised and forced himself to stay still, eyes wide as Yassen moved slowly towards him. Would the Russian hurt him? Even if he did, Alex probably deserved it.

"I can't believe you brought me flowers," he murmured silkily, face close enough to Alex's now that the spy could feel his breath on his cheeks.

Alex flushed brightly and thrust his hand forward, wanting nothing more to be rid of the damned things. He felt stupid and childish, knowing that it was own insecurities that had landed him in this position, and Yassen was just making fun of him again. Coming here had been a stupid idea; he should have realised that he'd blown it.

But the assassin's hand reached out to grab Alex's wrist, twisting it awkwardly so the boy was forced to drop the bouquet onto the rug at his feet. The sharp exclamation of pain was muffled by Yassen's lips, pressing hungrily at the other's as he pushed Alex back towards the wall. "I missed you," he admitted as they finally broke for air.

It was enough for Alex. It had to be; he knew he'd be fooling himself to hold out for anything else, that this could never be a normal relationship. Whether he was actually forgiven was another story, but for now he could pretend that everything was right again. It was enough.


	3. the next level

**Prompts: kick your butt - the next level - defiance - under my breath**

Of course it had to be Yassen. He'd suspected the Russian's involvement during the briefing, had almost turned down the mission because of it, but he'd thought he could avoid the other man. It was meant to have been a simple in and out, little chance of bumping into anyone with the ability to recognise him.

He swore and finished zipping up the suit, checked quickly that everything was attached properly and then turned his attention back to the approaching assassin. The predatory, measured movements sent an involuntary shiver down his spine but he refused to be cowed, lips curling into a defiant snarl. It had been years since they'd seen each other and he was no longer the insecure child he had been. He'd been trained for situations like this, had experienced them often enough, and the fact he was still alive was testament to his ability.

Hadn't slept with any of the others though, even if it seemed like a lifetime ago now. Alex took in the Grach held almost lazily by the Russian's thigh, knowing that he'd be dead if the Russian raised it and took a shot. The kevlar vest built into the suit might protect him from the bullet, if Yassen didn't fire at his exposed head, but it would wind him and he couldn't afford to risk the broken ribs that would likely result. His survival depended on getting away before the Russian got to him.

The helipad offered little cover. He dove for a storage crate anyway, desperate to put something between the two of them, and considered his options. The suit restricted his movements too much to realistically entertain the idea of physically fighting off an opponent, even if the gun didn't make the point moot. The Russian would easily be able to pick him off as soon as he moved away from the crate, but staying here would just give Yassen time to catch up with him. No, he had to move.

He stood reluctantly, relying on the assassin's reluctance to shoot him, leaning heavily on his luck considering the last time they'd seen each other. No shot came and he smiled tightly, knowing it was now or never. "Forgive me," he murmured to himself, unable to deny that he still felt something for the other man.

The Glock was half hidden in the folds of the suit and he'd been careful to hold it out of Yassen's line of sight when he'd drawn it behind the crate. Took a deep breath and wondered whether he would be fast enough, whether the assassin would recognise the movement and fire first, but Yassen was almost on him and he didn't have any longer to deliberate. He raised the gun and fired, saw Yassen do the same, but the bullet had connected and thrown the Russian's aim off. He heard the clipped grunt of pain but didn't see the man collapse to the floor, too busy leaping from the building before there was a chance for Yassen to fire again.

Safe. He'd managed to escape again, though Alex was well aware that he'd never be able to pull that sort of trick on the assassin again. Knew that Yassen had still seen him as a reluctant child who'd been unable to kill and, even though he'd deliberately aimed for the man's knee rather than a more vital point, knew that it would make him reconsider that opinion. For a moment he was almost sad for that final loss of innocence, then the inevitable thrill of freefalling took over and all thoughts of the Russian were pushed away.


	4. stain

**Stain:** 95 words

His breath catches as he spots the stain on the floor. In the half light it looks like blood and he steels himself for the resulting fallout, unsure what he was going to find but certain it wouldn't be pleasant. It takes a few moments of tense anticipation before he remembers that he split coffee this morning and hadn't had time to clean it up properly. He tries to ignore the disappointment that curls in his stomach as he switches the football on and unpacks the containers of Chinese takeaway. Just a normal night in.

 **Key:** 109 words

He turns the flimsy bit of plastic over in his hands, marvelling that it was all that was required to turn off the beefed up security installed in his new flat. He knows there's probably something else that they didn't tell him about – a hidden retinal scan, or fingerprint recognition – but he still can't shake the feeling of vulnerability. He knows how easy it is to bypass the systems, had done it himself, and he finds it hard to relax. The next morning sees him fitting a physical lock to the door with a real key, even if he knows deep down that it won't stop anyone.

 **Razor:** 101 words

He was sixteen when he shaved for the first time. The peach fuzz of puberty had developed into something darker, coarser, but was still embarrassingly patchy; Alex suspected it would be years before he was capable of growing a proper beard, even if he'd wanted to. He'd seen Ian shaving occasionally when he was home, when he was alive, but the memory was hazy and he'd had to resort to googling instructions. As he slides the razor across his cheek he can't help but feel resentful that there's nobody left to teach him. His country has taken even this from him.

 **Sometimes:** 90 words

Sometimes he doesn't think he can do this any more. Sometimes he just wants to lift the pistol to his own head and end it. Sometimes he wishes that this time his luck would finally run out.

But he struggles and strives and survives. Something in him refuses to give in, to give up, and when the moment comes all he can feel is a desperate need to persevere. Sometimes he wonders if it's because he's crazy.

But sometimes, sometimes he can catch a glimpse of what he's fighting for.

 **Watch:**  89 words

All they have together is stolen moments, brief fragments of time that they'd managed to somehow snatch for themselves. They're glancing at their watches even as they're struggling to strip each other, hot and heavy and desperate above the bed, calculating just how much time they've got for this. There's no time for tenderness or careful exploration and it turns into a battle to see who finishes first. Afterwards, when they're hunting for clothing lost in their previous haste, they spend longer staring at the time than each other.


	5. luxuria

**Prompt: luxuria**

_self-indulgent sexual desire (personified as one of the deadly sins)._

He'd grown up hearing stories of his father's achievements, his skill, his undeniable charms. It seemed there was nobody who'd come into contact with John Rider and not been captivated in some way – not Julia Rothman, who'd wanted to kill him, or even Ash, who actually had – and even Yassen Gregorovich had almost worshipped the man who'd been his mentor. He supposed Ian had possessed some of the same appeal, but never in the same quantities; no matter how hard he'd tried, he'd never been able to match his older brother.

Alex had spent most of his teenage years being compared to his father and, once he'd managed to stop being jealous of a dead man, had come to see how true it was. He was just as good as his father, just as talented a spy, but the similarities went further like that, further even than the uncanny physical resemblance. They both possessed the same charisma, but while John had charmed people without really trying or even wanting to, Alex wielded it like a weapon. John had been a dutiful soldier with a pretty wife waiting at home and a baby on the way; Alex was a tempest of seduction and scandalous allure.

Was it really surprising? He'd been attractive at fourteen but now, at twenty, was a veritable Adonis, an immaculate example of youth and masculinity. The muscles beneath bronzed skin were perfectly defined, a testament to the effort he put into keeping himself as fit as possible, and his hair was still the bright gold that rarely survived puberty. He'd learnt early on just how easy it was to use his body to get what he wanted and hadn't even felt guilty about it for very long. He lived his life from moment to moment, never knowing where he'd be next week or even if he'd be alive to see it, so was it really wrong to seek pleasure wherever he could find it? There was no point making things hard for himself if there was another way.

Though, he had to admit, the woman currently on her knees in front of him had nothing to do with survival. He'd met her twenty minutes earlier in the bar and it had been almost too easy to tempt her to follow him out to the alley behind the establishment. He'd been debating taking her back to his hotel room but she wasn't worth it, wasn't interesting enough, even if she did look beautiful with his cock in her mouth. He growled low in his throat as she squeezed his balls and closed his eyes, enjoying how talented she was at this. But then again, he'd not expected innocence. A beautiful woman alone at a bar, and she'd been far too quick to agree to go with him. He fists his hand in her hair and fucks her mouth violently.

He bit his lip as he came, stifling the urge to cry out; he found it felt too much like surrendering if he allowed anyone else to draw those sounds from him. A final defiance when he'd given in to everything else, had accepted this new, adult world with open arms and few morals. A backstreet blowjob was rather chaste for his usual tastes but he doubted he would find much better here. Rukla was a drab, depressing town in the middle of nowhere and he couldn't wait to wrap up this job and get out.

Which was why he was surprised by the man standing at the other end of the alley. He doubted it had anything to do with his own mission – not unless he'd seriously lowered the standard of jobs he took on – but couldn't imagine why anyone would want to visit here otherwise. He pulled the woman roughly to her feet and kissed her savagely, hardly caring that he could taste himself in her mouth. "Aš turiu eiti," he mutters, one of the few Lithuanian phrases he's picked up, and pushes her off, ignoring her protests. He's done with her now.

His attention is entirely focused on the audience they'd managed to attract. "Enjoying the show?" He zips up his fly and fastens the button, tugs his shirt back down to cover the strip of stomach on display.

Yassen Gregorovich doesn't say a word. Alex hadn't expected him to, would have been thrown if he'd managed to find any sort of emotion in the man's face, and he isn't even surprised that the assassin is currently training a gun on him. Maybe that's why Yassen was here.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Alex spreads his arms, inviting the Russian to do it. There's no kevlar vest this time, no clever gadgets to help him escape, and he knows he doesn't stand a chance if the man pulls the trigger. He finds it hard to care. There's a gun tucked into the back of his jeans but he doesn't even bother to go for it. "Come on then. I don't have all night."

But he knows Yassen won't shoot him and the knowledge makes a smile curl at a corner of his lips, dark, bitter amusement. They stare at each other for a few moments and Alex looks away first, snorting derisively. "Of course you won't. You'd never be able to shoot John." He knows that, despite everything, despite the fact that this is the man he lost his virginity to all those years ago, Yassen has never truly seen Alex when he looks at him. He's just a pale imitation of a dead man and it rankles. He wants to push Yassen against the wall and force him to recognise that Alex isn't his father. Isn't the unconfident, insecure child that Yassen bedded either, flustered at even the thought of sex and embarrassed by the way his body responded to the older man's more experienced touches, though maybe the blowjob the man just witnessed had cleared up that impression.

Instead he settles for lighting a cigarette from the pack in his jeans, lips drawing the smoke into his lungs until they burn. He doesn't like how much Yassen's opinion still matters to him or how attracted Alex still is. If it were anyone else, he'd have said fuck it and gone for it anyway, but he knows this is different to his usual promiscuous lifestyle. It takes everything he has to pretend he hadn't seen the flicker of lust in Yassen's eyes and walk away.

_Aš turiu eiti – I have to go_


End file.
